


Distraction

by Beleriandings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: All the angst with bonus smut, Angst, Celebrimbor in Gondolin verse, Everyone Has Issues, M/M, Sexual Content, Some Description of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 20:30:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2361254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maeglin dislikes spending excessive amounts of time with other people in Gondolin as a rule. One day, however, he meets a newcomer that he has a surprising amount in common with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distraction

Maeglin blinked as he left the bright glimmering light of the king’s ballroom behind, the cold night air hitting his face suddenly, making him wince. The babble of voices, the laughter and music of the midwinter festival faded to a low hum as the servants’ door through which he had made his escape swung shut behind him.

Maeglin passed a hand over his face angrily, leaning back against the cold rough stone and closing his eyes. His circlet was beginning to chafe and press at the sides of his head, and he tugged at it angrily.

Closing his eyes made no difference; he could still see her there, behind his closed lids, as though she were standing right before him. Laughing and turning to speak to someone at her other side, her hair tumbling like a river of gold down her back, her flowing white silk dress just baring her shoulders… he swallowed, biting his lip.

She had been dancing; Idril was a good dancer, and she seemed to take delight in every step, dancing with all the lords of the city, engaging them in friendly, easy conversation. 

To him too, she was outwardly kind and courteous, that was the worst of it. Yet sometimes, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of pity, of wariness, of fear and disgust even. Her smiles for him were all stiff, artificial things.

Maeglin bit his lip, rage filling him even as he felt tears in his eyes. It was cold outside, the night air cutting into him, through his thin festival silks. His breath came in short, sharp bursts, steaming in the frozen air.  _This place_ , he thought, letting himself slide down the wall, the back of his tunic ruching up against the stones.  _These fine, beautiful people in their glimmering city of light and wonders and whispers._

But he was the child of the dark, not the light, and he would never fit in here. He would never be truly one of them, blood or no blood, even after all these long years.

For them there were fountains and the bright glow of mirrored ballrooms, the courtyard ringing with the sounds of sword practice and the wind lifting their hair on the city walls on bright mornings.

For him, however much he tried to leave it behind, there was earth and metal, bindweed and thorns and milk-pale skin that never saw the sun, the memory of poison and of a childhood kept locked in the dark. There was the small relief of beating out his rage by shaping metal in the forge, commanding it into shapes beautiful or strange, weapons sharp and deadly. The times when even that was not enough. And of course, the whispers behind his back, the ones that spoke of his father, used the word  _cursed_ , the word  _unnatural_ , lips curling in suspicion. Maeglin bit down on his lip again until it hurt, pressing his eyes closed, furious once more at the hot tears that were welling up there.

“What are you doing out here?”

The voice had come suddenly and Maeglin’s eyes flicked open, heart accelerating as he struggled to get to his feet, embarrassed. “What does it look like?” he growled, angry at himself, at the stranger standing before him, at this whole wretched city. Maeglin scrutinised the newcomer. He knew him vaguely by sight, grinding his teeth as he recognised one of the fine, well-spoken lords who had danced with Idril after the feast.

Maeglin knew the names of most people of influence in Gondolin, but he didn’t know this one, he realised suddenly. Which meant he must have come with the party that had arrived from the outside several weeks ago. Refugees fleeing the war, Maeglin had heard, and had not cared to investigate any further. He had merely locked himself in his workroom then, and he did not want to have any more to do with this curious stranger now.

“I would say” said the stranger mildly, lips pressed into a thoughtful pout, “that it looks as though you are in some distress, although why, I could not possibly begin to imagine.”

A small frown of concern – Maeglin could think of little he wanted less that concern at this particular moment – creased his brow, between his eyes. Skin darker than Maeglin’s own, and silver eyes, Maeglin could not help but notice, with the strange flashing sheen that marked him as one of the ones who had come across the sea. Maeglin’s own eyes were black as nightshade berries, black as his father’s had been. He gritted his teeth, realising too late that he had not responded as the stranger’s frown deepened.

“Are the festivities not to your taste?”

“Oh, what could have given you that impression?” said Maeglin testily.

“Only that you left a quite charming midwinter dance to sit outside in the freezing night, and then proceed to slide down the wall clearly trying to fight back tears. All of which adds to my suspicions that you are not having the time of your life.”

Maeglin pursed his lips, glaring. “I don’t think we’ve had the honour of being introduced.”

“Celebrimbor, late of Nargothrond.” A shadow crossed his face, and he seemed about to say more but fell silent, closing his mouth. He put out a hand into the space between them tentatively. Maeglin extended his own hand somewhat unwillingly and they clasped forearms in greeting.

Maeglin’s hand lingered a little on Celebrimbor’s as they let go of each other. His skin was as callused as Maeglin’s own, more so perhaps, and curiously warm despite the bitter chill in the air, as though fire ran beneath the flesh in place of blood. “I was almost surprised that it was not made of silver” he said, turning the hand over as he dropped it.

Celebrimbor rolled his eyes, but his voice was good-natured, brisk. “You have no idea how many people have said that to me over the years. But what of you? Do you have a name?”

“I am Maeglin of the house of Fingolfin, advisor and nephew to the king” said Maeglin.

“The son of Aredhel? I thought you might be” said Celebrimbor. “I knew your mother a little. She was always kind to me, even when…” he drew in a breath. “I’ve heard of you, although I am told you’ve been much in the forge and in the surrounding hills, quarrying for metals of late, and thus somewhat elusive for a newcomer in the city.”

“Heard of me?” said Maeglin sharply.

“Good things, I assure you.”

Maeglin gave a bitter little laugh. “I’m sure.”

An uncomfortable silence fell between them for a moment, as Maeglin watched Celebrimbor’s face. His expression was one that Maeglin could not precisely place, which was unusual, and set him on edge. He was determined not to feel any curiosity about Celebrimbor though; that would feel too much like giving in.

Their breath steamed in the cold air between them, roiling pale clouds. It was Celebrimbor that broke the silence, twisting his hands together. “So, why _are_ you out here?”

“If you’ve talked to anyone in that hall, you should probably have something of an idea.” His voice cracked. “Come, there’s no need to spare my feelings, or change the subject. I do know what they say about me, in general. But what have  _you_  heard?”

Celebrimbor narrowed his eyes. “Alright. You want the truth? They say that the king’s nephew is clever, but cold, aloof… and he has… strange whims and desires.  _Perverted_ , in some cases even.” His expression was unreadable. “Everyone agrees on  _reclusive_ , at least. They say it’s in the blood, but - ” he hushed Maeglin’s cutting remark “ – but also that he is a wild creature, deserving of pity. That blood will out and all that, and that he’s the son…” Celebrimbor stared at him hard “…the son of the father.”

“I thought as much. I do not want their pity” he swallowed “nor their love, although they have scant amounts of that to give me.”

“Hmm” said Celebrimbor thoughtfully, scrutinising Maeglin’s face with detached curiosity now. “And so you go to social events only to storm out in a rage. I’m learning more about you by the second.”

Maeglin’s patience was wearing thin. “Watch your tongue” he snapped. “Who do you think you are anyway? Some minor lordling of Nargothrond, too cowardly to die for his people, seeking alms at the gates of this city?”

Celebrimbor’s face twisted in rage, strangely beautiful for it, the tilt of his jaw proud and haughty. “I am - ”

He got no further; Maeglin’s own anger flared. “If I were king, I would have turned you out, let you and your little band of stragglers die out there” he spat. “This city needs no more mouths to feed, and it certainly needs no more swaggering, posturing lords vying for my uncle’s favour. We are - ”

“Do you know what it was like when Nargothrond fell?” interrupted Celebrimbor in his turn, his voice low and dangerous, fire in his eyes. “Have you heard the screams of a whole city, burning, dying? People running through the caves to escape the fire, being dragged out only to be taken and slain on the stones outside, blood turning the river’s foam to red?”

Maeglin’s mouth was open, and he shut it. Celebrimbor’s voice was close to breaking point now. “Do you know the pain of not being able to save the ones who have been good to you, who took you in and kept you safe when by rights they should have cast you out for the sins of your house? Of making a few friends, slowly, a few tense alliances, and then watching the only ones you have left die before you, while you are unable to help?”

There were tears in Celebrimbor’s eyes now too, Maeglin saw, although he was blinking them back furiously. “It was beautiful, Nargothrond, and I thought… I thought that despite… my family, my father, I thought I might have a place there, in time, but then… that burned too, and… and…” he drew in a deep breath, his voice falling into a snarl. He folded his arms. “No. You don’t know any of that, do you? You’ve been sitting here all safe in your hidden city, in your forge, making beautiful things no doubt” he gave a bark of laughter “swords that will never see blood, even though there is a war going on all around. Meanwhile, you fret and worry and sob that the others here do not  _like_  you.”

“I…” Maeglin was taken aback. He stared at the rise and fall of Celebrimbor’s chest as he breathed hard. Maeglin’s mind suddenly felt blank. “Who… who  _are_  you? Really?” he asked stupidly.

Celebrimbor seemed to realise how close together they had come, and leaned back, crossing his arms across his chest. He sighed, and drew himself up taller, regarding Maeglin appraisingly. “I am Celebrimbor, as I said… not a lord of Nargothrond, in any sense of the term. But I  _was_ … I was  _once_ the son of Curufin, of the house Fëanor.”

Maeglin drew in his breath, involuntarily. He remembered now, his mind taking him back long ago, his mother furtively scribbling a family tree, labelling it in two languages. He looked into Celebrimbor’s face, twisted in pain. He raised an eyebrow. “You  _were_? Past tense?”

“Yes” said Celebrimbor wearily. “Now… I am not entirely sure what I am to be honest.” He looked at Maeglin. “My father and uncle did… terrible things. I was uncomfortable with it for a long time, but I was a coward, I stayed for far too long. But there came a time when I could not in good conscience carry on… I vowed to no longer call or consider myself his son.”

Maeglin frowned, curious now. “’ _Terrible things_ ’? Do you mean what happened at Alqualondë?”

“There was that, but it was only the beginning. My father and my uncle Celegorm captured the princess of Doriath, kept her locked away in Nargothrond. They tried to seize power from the ones who had sheltered us when we fled the ruin of Himlad after the battle of sudden flame. They sent their own cousin off to die…” he swallowed.

“In the end, I felt a certain dread that I would  _become_  my father, that though I had sworn no Oath the doom of my house would twist me, make me into  _him_ …” he had been looking at the paved ground of the courtyard as he spoke, but now he looked back at Maeglin, as though for absolution. “I renounced my father, threw away my whole life.” He laughed humourlessly, “it wouldn’t have been much of a life. No honour to be had, and the Oath would have caught up with us soon enough. But still… not a day passes when I do not wonder whether what I did was right. I mean, I know it  _was_  right. But - ”

“But” said Maeglin, his voice growing surer as he spoke, “you are his blood, and that is something you cannot change. And more; he lives within you, for the influence of your upbringing, your whole life, is not so easy to scrub away. You concentrate on your every action, trying to consciously be different, trying to find something that is yours alone, a distraction.” His words were coming in rush now, a torrent from he knew not where. “And yet there he is, in every corner, in your very face when you look in the mirror. And always, you worry that you will  _fall_ , that any moment you could slip into being like him…” he tailed off, words leaving him as quickly as they had come. “I… I’m sorry.  I don’t know why I said that.”

Celebrimbor was looking at him intently, fascinated and by all appearances slightly disturbed. “I do” he said, and then, “ _distraction_ , you said… pray tell me, Maeglin, what is your preferred distraction?”

Maeglin blinked at the unexpected change of subject. “I suppose… my work” he said at last. “I am a craftsman, and I am charged with the mining and quarrying of metals to supply the city. It is very fulfilling work” he smiled wryly “because it means I get the chance to get out of this place a little, and think my own thoughts as I explore the mountains.”

“I’m sure” said Celebrimbor, a thin smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “What about people?”

“What about them?” Maeglin felt his patience fraying once more. “They are distracting, I suppose, yes.”

“I have heard it said that you have feelings for the princess Idril.”

Maeglin scowled. “I hardly see how that matters if she has no feelings for me. I can find comfort in…  _others_  when I want it. Why are you even asking?” he felt his voice rising. He realised he had raised his hand into the space between them and forced it back to his side again, too quickly. “Why do you care?”

Celebrimbor backed off, his upraised palms – a gesture of peace – only serving to incite Maeglin’s annoyance further. “Alright! I only wanted to get a better measure of you… to see if there was truth to the rumours I have heard.” He smiled that thin, knowing smile again, silver eyes flashing. “And I suppose there is.” He softened a little. “Don’t think I don’t know the pain of falling for someone who does not return the feelings. I have tasted that bitter cup before, and doubtless will again before all capacity to love is drawn out of me.”

Maeglin raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, don’t look like that” protested Celebrimbor, his face beginning to flush, his lips slightly open. “I - ”

But at that moment the doors of the hall burst open, and burst of light a gaggle of laughing guests spilled out into the courtyard. There was a blast of warm air, making Maeglin realise quite how cold he was. He shivered, involuntarily. He suddenly remembered the touch of Celebrimbor’s warm skin, like metal left in the sun, almost feeling the imprint of the touch on his hand still. 

“It’s late” said Celebrimbor, suddenly blank-faced and formal once more. _Just like that the mask slides back into place,_ mused Maeglin. “I am tired.” He rubbed the back of his neck, before giving Maeglin a small smile, not quite looking at him. “I daresay we shall see each other again soon, the city being… what it is.”

“I’m certain of it” said Maeglin thoughtfully.

And in another moment, Celebrimbor was gone, turning tail and hurrying back into the milling crowd.  

———-

They had talked entirely too much that midwinter evening outside in the courtyard, Maeglin thought later.

They talked much less that night, when Celebrimbor came to him in his rooms.

Maeglin knew who it would be even as he was opening the door. Perhaps he had known longer, he thought, since hearing the quiet, discrete knock, or even before the knock had come. Perhaps he had known since he had touched Celebrimbor’s hand, or since they had first spoken.

As soon as the door to Maeglin’s room snicked shut, Celebrimbor hesitated for only the briefest, searching moment before pressing him up against the wall of the corridor, arms wrapping around him and almost lifting him off his feet as he pushed Maeglin roughly backwards in a hungry, urgent kiss.

Maeglin reached up, his eyes pressed closed and his nose compressed against Celebrimbor’s cheek, fingers knotting in hair black as a raven’s wing. He held Celebrimbor tightly, pulling him ever closer, finding sudden fierce joy in the feeling of the breath being crushed form his chest.

They broke apart for a moment, and their eyes met; apprehension flickered momentarily through Celebrimbor’s silver eyes, then something like concern. Maeglin had seen enough. With a snarl, he pushed Celebrimbor back to the other side of the narrow passageway behind the door, relishing the impact as it jarred through both of their bodies.

The kiss was haphazard, all teeth and tongues, hands grasping at each others’ hair, tugging at clothes. Maeglin’s thoughts were raw; all of  _want_.

Their bodies ground together, moving out of synchronisation in their haste, pressing too hard against one another and in the wrong places, pain and pleasure blurring together in Maeglin’s head.  _All to feel something, anything._ He almost laughed at that thought, knowing that he had always felt too much.

Somehow they were at the writing desk, and they were leaning against its edge painfully, side by side. Celebrimbor’s hand was at his neck, running an incongruously tender finger into the hollow of his throat. A small sound from deep within his throat escaped Celebrimbor’s lips as he bit at the underside of Maeglin’s jaw.

Their tunics came off in a confusion of stops and starts, buttons and fasteners tangling and snagging in hair, drawing agonised cries. Then Celebrimbor was kissing his chest, hands reaching down to circle his hips, pulling them close to each other.

With no more preamble Celebrimbor slipped a hand into the front of Maeglin’s breeches, tugging impatiently at the lacings with the other hand to loosen them. Maeglin clung to him, fingers digging into warm flesh, feeling his nails drag welts into Celebrimbor’s skin, even as those long, elegant fingers ran up and down the length of him, making him cry out sharply.

“Oh, I was wondering if you would be loud” said Celebrimbor, indistinctly. That was the last thing he said before he dipped his head down, taking Maeglin suddenly into his mouth, head bobbing up and down as Maeglin’s back arched against the desk, bruising his spine. They moved together, and Maeglin found a single word of the conversation they had had earlier rattling in his head;  _distraction_.

Maeglin felt himself come suddenly, falling back against the wooden panels and thrusting his hips forward as he spurted down Celebrimbor’s throat. Afterwards, Celebrimbor raised his head, smiling smugly, hushing Maeglin’s incipient words with a kiss that tasted of himself.

Then Celebrimbor was raising an eyebrow, looking around the room. Maeglin, guessing correctly his intention, leaned down to the desk drawer where there was a pot of thick, pasty salve. Celebrimbor’s mouth quirked up into half of that knowing, infuriating smile, and he did not even have to speak for Maeglin to hear his words;  _it has been used for this purpose before, has it not?_  To his frustration, Maeglin felt a blush rising high on his cheeks, even now, but then Celebrimbor was caressing him, bring him back to half hardness as he leaned him over the desk, daubing the salve onto his fingers and preparing him.

When Celebrimbor finally pushed into Maeglin, he made that same quiet sound in his throat again, growing louder as he thrust deeper. Maeglin’s head tipped back, falling amongst papers.  _Words, words._ The two of them had no words in this moment, they needed no words.  _How much better to be silent, for this night at least._

Afterwards, they held each other for a time, Maeglin slumped half over the desk, Celebrimbor having fallen down to the floor, arms wrapped around his legs, head pillowed against Maeglin’s knees, skin cooling slowly as each listened to the other’s breathing.

“The sun is rising” said Celebrimbor at long last, getting unsteadily to his feet. He offered Maeglin a hand, but Maeglin was already levering himself up from the desk, his limbs stiff; he had been propped up in a twisted, uncomfortable position.

“It is” said Maeglin, standing facing Celebrimbor, watching the light of dawn steal over his face, catching the sheen of brightness in his eyes. He brushed a strand of hair – stiffened now with dried sweat - from Celebrimbor’s eye. Celebrimbor twitched away for a moment, before sighing and drawing himself close to Maeglin, his hands gentler than they had been all night. His kiss this time was almost soft, tender.

He must have felt Maeglin’s involuntary frown, as he drew back hastily, picking up his clothes from the floor and dressing hurriedly. At the door, he looked back.

“Thank you for the talk, earlier” he said, from the door, vulnerability in his voice. “And then for…” he gestured around the room as though to take in the whole night. “This.”

Maeglin only nodded weakly; before he could think of a reply, Celebrimbor had slipped out of the door, leaving him standing there in the empty room once more. 


End file.
